


Cutesy Messages in Strategic Places (and heart-stopping scares)

by LunaDeSangre



Series: Love is... [10]
Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, M/M, S3E19: I Am the Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-19 22:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14882307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: Matt's defense is: Kelly started it.(And he's still a bit terrified.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm terrible at staying focused on one thing: trying to continue/finish the version of that episode in that other universe, _this_ is what came up. I'm also slightly tempted to apologize for all the references in here to snapshots I haven't finished writing yet (I work on a million little things at once according to where inspiration strikes and can't seem to break that habit).

Chicago Med is eerily silent, especially given the terrifying mess it was earlier in the day. Kelly's been moved to a private room, and visiting hours are technically still on, but the terrorist's attempts to kill everyone in the ER have had the place essentially on lockdown since then: no visitors, no new patients, all emergencies rerouted to the closest hospitals. There's yellow tape on the doors, police officers and cars idling about and blocking the parking lot still, a coroner's van, a cleaning crew on standby, and a very large number of people all but fighting with hospital security and uniformed cops alike, in their efforts to get in and see their hospitalized loved ones despite it all.

Matt, however, hasn't spent far too much time in this place for nothing: it pays to be a known face, especially one that's married to the hero firefighter who _tackled the guy with the grenade_ just a few hours before. He's not, in the words of the nurse who sneaks him in, allowed to stay _too long_ , but he can have (she says with the same kind of indulgent smile he remembers seeing on the hospital staff who used to let Kelly stay past visiting hours when Matt was the one stuck in here) a few minutes.

Kelly's asleep, and, he's told again, out of danger, stable and on his way to a swift recovery, just like Shay's told him. Despite the initial doctor's prognostic Shay was so reluctant to admit, and the absolutely horrifying surgery conditions that left her teary-eyed and shaky in retrospect (hugging their son a bit too desperately until Matt managed to park him with a juice box in front of a cartoon and dragged her into the bathroom, holding her tight while she sobbed hard into his shoulder in-between gasps for breath, _I'm sorry it's just delayed shock or something_ and _I swear he's okay, he'll be okay now Matt, I'm fine, go see him, I'm fine Matt, I swear_ ).

He's asleep, but it's...it's absolutely fucking horrible to see him like this. There's no tubes or machines besides that one monitor, no one hovering around in case of emergencies, nothing that should be rekindling any of that gut-wrenching feeling of doom—but there's _that hospital smell_ , and Kelly's too still, and too pale, and too... _not_ full of life. Not _himself._

Like he's been shot down with kryptonite.

Realistically, Matt knows very well Kelly isn't invincible—that no one is, at all, ever. But Kelly...Kelly's recovered from that risky surgery a few years back with such speed and easiness he'd left those doctors gaping, he's survived so many dangerous rescues with barely a scratch, and he's been Matt's unshakable, rock-solid, _eternal_ pillar of strength since that time he decided cornering Matt with a ring and a soul-stealing kiss was a better way of asking him out than just saying _What are you doing tonight?_ or _Let's try dating again_ like a normal person (not that Matt is complaining, mind. At _all_ ). He's been Matt's superman for so long, through so many never-ending confusing and painful days, weeks and months, that it's completely terrifying to be abruptly reminded that he could die, just like that, in the blink of an eye—like Andy, like Hallie, like Matt's dad.

That all that makes Kelly _Kelly_ could be _gone_ , suddenly, _just like that._

And that the earth would keep on turning, round and round and round, _without him_ —like it wouldn't matter at all, that the world had lost the most amazing person that had ever breathed its air.

Realistically, Matt _knows_ Kelly isn't invincible, just like he knows that Kelly's lying there alive. And maybe it's delayed shock, too—he's been strong in front of his son and he's been strong for Shay—but he steps into Kelly's room and he sees Kelly there, asleep, breathing, and whatever he realistically knows flies out the window: suddenly he's wiping tears from his eyes and can't seem to take in enough air around that lump in his throat, can't even move to take Kelly's hand because it's all he can do to stay upright.

It's all he can do to cry quietly, silently, just standing there watching Kelly breathe through a wet blur, for _just a few minutes_ , desperately wishing to make something, _anything_ , better for Kelly _somehow_.

It hits him abruptly: it's not the same room, but Matt remembers waking up alone in the middle of the night in this place, feeling confused and lost, wanting Kelly with him. Rubbing his slightly-stinging eyes, and finally noticing the black writing on the inside of his left arm: _Hi Gorgeous_ , in what had unmistakably been Kelly's handwriting. With two smaller lines underneath, made a bit messy by what had obviously been a sharpie too big for the letters: _I'll come kiss you good morning as soon as they let me through the doors again (or I'll climb through the window and come kiss you anyway)_.

He remembers being bowled over by a wave of so much _love_ it had nearly made him cry— _had_ made him cry a little, because he'd understood then, with striking, overwhelming clarity, what he had somehow failed to grasp when Kelly had given him that ring: that as long as Kelly was alive, Matt would never, ever be alone, even when he physically was. Because wherever _Kelly_ was—home, the House, on a call—he was thinking about him, missing him as much as Matt missed _him_. Wanting to be with him as much as Matt wanted him to be. Because _that's_ what all of Kelly's I love yous meant: I love you, _always_. Every second of every minute of every day, I love you. Physically and mentally, whether I'm there or not. That's what the ring meant, and that writing on his arm, there with him as placeholders for Kelly.

Matt doesn't want to make Kelly cry, but he doesn't want him to wake up _alone_. Sure, Kelly already has his ring too—that stark line of permanent ink around his finger, thankfully undamaged by the blast, the twin of the one hidden under the actual metal ring on Matt's finger—but that's there _always_ : it doesn't say _I was here_ and _I'll come back as soon as I can_ and _I'm thinking about you and missing you and wanting to be with you and loving you even as you read this_.

So Matt wipes his eyes and backtracks to find the nurse, engaged in subdued chatting with an on-duty colleague in the abnormally quiet corridor, and asks if he can borrow a sharpie. He's a known face with the night shift too, and so's Kelly: neither of them ask if he wants paper as well, or offer him a pencil instead. Kelly had almost made it a game, after that first time, to leave messages on Matt's skin if Matt wasn't awake when he had to leave (and then, even when he had been). Witty, disguised I love yous and plain, simple ones, and tiny drawings too: Celtic knots, cats with long curling tails, little boats floating in clouds, elaborately ornate blazing suns. There'd been a lot more than one nurse commenting with a smile, a _He's outdone himself today_ or a _That's a really amazing man you've got there, sweetie_ , and Matt thinks a bit numbly that he shouldn't be surprised they both seem to already know what he wants that sharpie for.

Back in Kelly's room, he has to take a deep breath before he can touch Kelly's left arm, turning it gently, delicately, like the fragile thing it shouldn't be. Kelly is breathing regularly, easily, but he's too still, and too pale. Matt bends over him awkwardly to reach in a way that Kelly will be able to read, wills his hands not to tremble, and tries to come up with something, anything.

 _Hi Handsome_ , he writes, like he always answers when Kelly greets him like he'd had in that first message—like he does about every morning he wakes up with Kelly's stunningly-blue eyes grinning at him from a hair's breadth away—and once he's started it's easier, because he only hesitates for a few seconds before he's adding in smaller writing underneath: _Be good, don't escape, and I'll smuggle in blueberry pancakes to go with your good morning kiss._

He'll have to wake up extra early to make them—if he can sleep at all—and calculate the time needed so they're still warm when he gets here. Make extra ones for Shay and their son—Shay'll laugh, no doubts, but she'd been a shakily-concealed wreck a few hours ago, voice cracking on the phone saying _We don't know if we've been infected yet but there's a doc doing tests now and we got all the—out of—Kelly—He's stable now, he'll be fine, y'know, if we're not_ and _Just in case, Matt, tell Killian I_ and she can sure use a laugh, and Kelly'll smile, because he's stable and he'll be alright and so he'll smile.

He kisses Kelly's forehead before he leaves, nearly choking on the tears of what almost happened, and on the grateful ones that it thankfully _didn't_.


	2. Chapter 2

When he comes back, as soon as visiting hours allow, promised pancakes rolled in the tupperware box he's managed to force into one of his coat's pockets along with a plastic fork and a paper napkin, with a small bottle of freshly-squeezed orange juice in the other, Kelly's awake—and laughing. "I love you too," he says, holding up his arm and waving it a bit—probably as much as his fucking wounds allow. And, blue eyes far too innocent: "And I've been good, no escaping, just like you asked." He tilts his face toward Matt's in obvious anticipation of his promised kiss, and those eyes Matt loves so much twinkle in mischief.

Matt has a thousand things to say. _I love you too you fucking idiot_ and _you're not fucking supposed to tackle grenade-wielding terrorists_ and _please never do that again_ and _I love you so fucking much_ are just a few of those. He's got his son and he's got Shay, his sister, his niece, and all of 51, but Kelly is his husband—the love of his life, to use Kelly's words for him—and he very nearly died and Matt's world very nearly ended.

So Matt kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. Lips, forehead, cheeks and eyelids and lips, quick and long and soft and a bit desperate, a bit blurry. All he can do he kiss him—but he knows Kelly understands. (Understands probably all too well.)

"I love you too, Sunshine," Kelly says again—but softly, in his _it's okay_ tone of voice, and cupping both of Matt's cheeks, thumbs stroking his skin gently, reassuringly: Matt knows it's an unspoken _I'm here_.

There's a lump in Matt's throat again, and he's sure there's tears in his eyes too, but he's got nothing, absolutely nothing at all, to hide from Kelly. (That's another thing those rings mean.)

He nods, mutely, and rests their foreheads together. Even through the blurriness in his eyes, Kelly's smile is dazzling, and Matt focuses on this and only this, gratefully breathing with him.


End file.
